The First and Last Farewell
by Alfie Bibbit
Summary: Boromir is about to leave for his first battle. However, young Faramir does not share in his enthusiasm. Worried, he pays his brother a midnight visit.
1. Part One

_This is the first Fic I ever wrote, only the second Fic I've put up on here, and certainly the first one I've ever let anyone read._

_I've always had a great interest in the characters Boromir and Faramir, and this I kinda just wrote on impulse. _

_Nothing much happens here. It takes place as Faramir's troop are leaving on their suicide mission to Osgilliath, but for the most part it's in flashback, describing the night before Boromir's very first mission. Faramir is worried about his brother leaving for battle, and so sneaks out to Boromir's room in the soldiers quarters to see him. _

_Boromir would be about 15 here, making Faramir 9 or 10._

_Any constructive  reviews would be greatly appreciate, but bear in mind it's only my first Fic. Thanks._

The silver moonlight echoed through the open window, rippling across his white sheets, tangled around his body. It was to hot to sleep, even with the windows wide open. He tossed about his berth in restless irritation, his idle energy ablaze in his veins. His mind could not be altered from the thought of his brother, who was to leave on his first duty across the lands to join their father in battle come morning, and his heart was wrung with worry and longing.

Frustrated, he threw off his bed sheet and quietly clambered onto the window ledge, taking care not to disturb anyone who might have been awake in the halls.

 The city was silent, and only the soft rhythm of insects was to be heard.  Even now in the deep of the night, the heavy warmth of the sun seemed to radiate from the marble walls of the city. He leant further out of the bay, studying the sleeping streets, that he had seen a million times before, glisten in the twilight, as it seemed in the night to adopt a fresh mystical air, ready anew for exploring. He craned his neck over the roofs of houses above to catch a glimpse of the white tower, rising majestically out of the citadel, gleaming radiantly, set against the deep, lucid blue of the midnight sky, set with stars mapping the heavens.

 Perhaps this was not the time for an adventure, but he could not stay in his thick aired room, writhing in sleeplessness alone. Carefully, he opened his door, slowly, silently begging it not to creak, as its incriminating screech had been the downfall of his untimely ventures on many occasions. His dark head peered about the corridors, checking that all the halls were free of any one who might impede his flight.

 Satisfied that he was alone, he started down the hallway, his small bare feet slapping the marble ground. He spotted his exit, the looming wooden doors, adorned with carvings and decoration around two huge iron handles. His tiny hands clasped the great hoops, and he began to haul them open. The giant doors groaned, and he fell back in fright, desperately looking around to see if the noise had roused suspicion in his carers. He stepped back in defeat, contemplating another means of escape, when he saw an open window to the side of the doors.

A spark of pleasure lit up in his, as he spotted his chance anew, and he darted across the room to a small wooden chair and warily lifted to the window. Slowly he set it down, edging it closer, and clambering atop of it. Grasping the ledge he heaved himself up onto his knees, and turning around, slid down the outside wall until his stretching toes felt the ground outside. He stood up, grinning triumphantly at his playful getaway.

 The street shimmered under the faint light of the stars, and the careworn walls of the city seemed bright and new. The long path up into the citadel courtyard stretched out in front of his, and he started up it. The city was asleep, the streets abandoned, and he felt a thrill of freedom and he darted through the beautiful calm gardens, stretching his hands up and running them through the soft drooping leaves of the willow tree. He crept up through the courtyard of the citadel. There were no guards at the doors and the walls of the courtyard were unmanned, as many of the guard were already stationed in Dol Amroth, preparing for battle. He stopped at the fountain and watched as the sad wilting tree trickled a drop onto the water, scattering the reflection of the bright moon.

 Quietly he pushed open the smaller doors at the side of the great halls and began to tread softly down the long that stretched along, a steering path to many doors, behind which important council beyond his knowledge took place. He turned and started up a set of winding stairs, momentarily catching a glimpse of his tussled head staring back at his in the gleaming polished floor. Atop of the staircase, a door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open, peering inside.

To his delight, there was a figure sat up in bed at the far side of the room, his dark form backlit by the moonlight streaming through a window.

Alerted to his presence by the flooding of dim candlelight into the room, he looked up, shoulder length raven hair falling over his face.

He spotted him in the doorway; standing apprehensively, his ill fitting nightshirt hanging off his small shoulders, still trailing his sheets behind him like a child's comfort blanket.  His head was tilted, and the dark tufts of his thick hair seemed to glow in the light behind him.

 He frowned scoldingly to see him out of bed, and for a moment wondered how the smaller child had made his way up to the soldier's quarters unchallenged, but soon cast the thought from his mind, as nothing he did surprised him. He opened his mouth to speak, but his face softened and he sighed defeatedly as he was met with a face of childish innocence.

He smiled and beckoned him further inside. The child, seeing his expression raced across the room towards him. Leaning down, he slipped his arm under his and lifted the smaller boy up beside him. He grinned at him, glad of the company, as he too was restless in the wakeful night.

He began to quieten him, but he himself began to laugh quietly, and threw back his coverlets for him to climb in. He pulled the coverings about him as the worried child nuzzled into his chest, and he looked down on him lovingly.

And here he lay as the night passed, watching his brother's stern featured, handsome face as he slept, and willing the hindrance of the dawn.

********


	2. Part Two

_This is the second part of my little Boromir/Faramir fanfic. This one's a bit longer because I couldn't find another place to break it, it kinda flowed better this way There may or may not be a third part involving Denethor, depending on reaction and circumstances. Hopefully you'll enjoy reading this like I enjoyed writing it. Thanks._

He awoke with the warm sun on his face, and he stretched out in the bed, yawning. In a moment of waking bewilderment, he looked around, an instant of panic gripping him as she realised he was not in his own room. Soon memories of his midnight flight flooded back to him, and comforted, he rolled over and settled himself back under the covers.

Sounds of movement across the room reminded him that he was not alone, and he sat up, returning the smile of the tall boy who stood over a wooden chest, watching him quietly. But his smile faded into a look of fret and sadness as he saw him lift a heavy mail tunic from the box, and set it down on table beside him, already laden with a helm and a delicately crafted long-sword, and remembered why it was he was in the room in the first place.

The preceding night had been the last they would be together for a long number of weeks, as he rode out to join their father and the company of rangers already on their mission, defending neighbouring Dol Amroth.

He climbed out of bed and trod over to his side. The elder son leaned down and swept him up onto the table, affectionately ruffling his hair. He held up a tunic; black and heavy, adorned with an ornate silver tree under seven stars. He admired it for a moment, and turned to him smiling, seeing if he shared in his excitement. Instead he looked up at him with deep, pleading eyes.

"You'll come and see me off, will you not?" He asked. "Do not worry, I won't be away long." Sighing, he looked down at the small boy beside him. His younger sibling had never shared his enthusiasm for battle.

"I had thought you would be glad of the freedom, you can make mischief without father or I about to reproach you!" The child did not look comforted, and slid of the bench, returning to his spot on the bunk.

After taking breakfast and washing, the boy returned to the quarters, to find his brother gathering his arms in preparation. He watched him quietly as he stood proudly, straightening his armours and adjusting his scabbard in his belt. His delight in arms was evident in his pleasure at soon glimpsing his first real battle. He carefully slid his sword into its holster, gripping its handle readily.

He stared up at his brother in approbation, standing high and glorious in his battle garb. It had seemed to him that none could rival his brother in swordsmanship.

He was forever in awe of his skill and courage, fearless and strong. He knew he was very little like his brother, who was plainly and unashamedly their father's favourite. He himself, although skilled in arms, did not seek glory in danger without need. He was gentle in bearing, and sought knowledge of lore and history, rather than of war; and so his courage was deemed less than his brother's, particularly by his father. But between them there was no rivalry, for their father's favour or the praise of men.

At length, the elder bent down to meet his brother's eyes and spoke.

"I am to go and gather with the guard now. I shall see you at the gates before I ride. Behave yourself…the council are perhaps of lesser leniency than I. And be careful, I know what adventures you get up to, but I will not be here to look after you. Do not venture further than Emen Arnen unaided. It is no longer safe to cross to Lossarnach..."

He gently placed his hand on his shoulder. "Worry not. I will return before long. No enemy of Gondor shall strike me without a fair challenge!" The child still stared with fret, and he stepped back, looking at him for a moment, and reassurances and warnings held, he could find nothing more to say. His thought was broken by the sharp ringing of horn, a call to arms. He felt a rush of excitement, and holding a look to his young brother; he lent forward and embraced him tenderly. He rose, kissing his brow, and turned out of the room.

********

 Outside in the courtyard, already the clatter of hooves on stone was to be heard, and he raced down the streets to the first tier, through the crowds of people who had lined the winding road through the city to watch the band of soldiers head out.

He climbed up to the top of the outer wall, and set himself so that he could clearly see the procession of soldiers, clad in the fine black and silver livery of the tower, riding through the streets, to the cheers of all the people. As they neared the gate, he scrambled to raise himself higher, his feet kicking at the wall. He clambered onto the battlement, just as the gates swung open, setting their road across the Pelennor before them, and the sound of many clear horns rang out over the city. He lent over, stretching his frantically waving arms as he spotted his brother, behind the Captain of the Guard, holding the banner of the city proudly raised as it billowed in the breeze.

 Hearing his cries he looked up at him and smiling eagerly, bowed his head in salutation.

The boy sat upon the stockades long after the parade of warriors had streamed out of the great gates of the white city, and the people had returned to their errands, until the last glimpse of the march had passed out of sight, beyond the hills and into the morning sun.

********

He did not count the time that passed as he sat with his thoughts in his room. Out of her window, the grey veil of mist faded, revealing the black night's sky, absent of the stars he had once looked upon in wonder with his brother.

He looked down over the empty city, silent in sorrow at the loss of its son. From where he sat, high above the lower tiers of the city, the gates look diminutive, seemingly powerless in impeding adversaries and the enemies of men. When he was a child, the ominous gates were the forefront of an impenetrable fortress, impassable to any foe. They were a defensive power, protecting their people from harm, aided by valiant heroes. And like all of the other citizens of the City of Kings, he had gathered around them to watch the noble champions return…

****

Returning to the spot upon the battlements where a month earlier he had stood heavy hearted as he watched his brother leave, he leaned over, desperately reaching for a glimpse over the outer walls. After a while, the streets began to fill with people, awaiting the return of loved ones.

The city buzzed with a murmur of anticipation echoing from the crowd. Suddenly there came a cry from the guards below, and they began to heave the great doors open.

The proud march of men on steeds flowed through the doorway, rushing into the courtyard. He raced from his watchful spot down into the square, and scrambled onto the dried-up stone fountain to get a better view over the heads of the triumphant combatants and the surge of family and supporters that had teemed into the streets. Spotting his quarry at the other side of the court, surrounded by men full of garrulous praise and patting his back laudatorily, he leapt down into the heaving crowd. He raced over to him, and hearing his cries his face lit up. He turned from the men and leant down, arms open to accept his warm reception. He embraced him both, and him held them away from him, his eyes fixed upon his brother's face in wonder. He seemed to have grown even since he had been away. He lifted the child up onto his steed and sat him down in front of him, and together, the sons of Gondor lead the procession up to the awaiting Citadel.

But the sun had faded and a grey mist surrounded as the gates below the battlements groaned slowly to a close after the march of heroic but doomed men, lead by the youngest, and last son of the Steward.

The streets below were littered with white flowers trampled by the hooves of slowly treading horses, and there was an air of quiet mourning in the city. The haunting scene was as that of a funeral as the crowds of black-clad people moved silently back to their homes, knowing that this time, they would not be assembling in the streets to watch their conquering heroes return.


End file.
